


And if I get tomorrow, I will do it all again

by GwiYeoWeo



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Bromance, Brotherhood: Final Fantasy XV, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, Loyalty, Pre-Brotherhood (Final Fantasy XV), Time Skips, birthday fic, technically not everyone but yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 08:13:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20485691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwiYeoWeo/pseuds/GwiYeoWeo
Summary: Noctis stares into his drink, seeing none of his reflection in the dark cream and foam. He tries again though, tries to be brave like his father when he appeared before Noctis and told him the truth. “Y’know, in school, we’re learning about statistics and probability and stuff. Who knows, maybe the odds will be on my side and this Accursed guy won’t show up until way later.”Noctis, when he had been old enough to understand, was told of his fate — to trade his one life for the sake of all humanity. That didn't stop him from living his life, and he's determined to use what time he has until destiny calls his name.





	And if I get tomorrow, I will do it all again

**Author's Note:**

> (reuploaded because im dumb lmao)  
happy belated birthday mah boi

When he is thirteen, Noctis truly learns the meaning behind his mysterious title — the Chosen King — and what his destiny entails. He's come back from a training session with Gladio, cut short by an hour as his "belated" birthday present but Noctis is convinced it's only because the older teen never figured out what to gift him, after a quick shower afforded by the locker rooms. 

He’s walking half-blind as he rubs a towel into his wet hair and almost collides into his own father, but Regis reaches out with steady hands before Noctis can fall backwards onto his already sore rump. 

“Noctis, finished training early today?” he asks, righting his son back up. 

His father sounds… strained, despite the casual question. Noctis slides the towel off his head and looks up to see Regis look as torn as his tone did. In response, Noctis’ own distress probably shows — he hasn’t had his governess or Ignis to teach him how to keep a poker face in the face of politics just yet — as Regis raises a hand to placate him when his son opened his mouth to ask frantic questions. 

“I’ve spent long nights and countless days on when to tell you. You deserve to know the truth, Noctis, no matter how much it pains me to say it; so forgive your father for holding this secret from you for so long.” 

Regis takes them to his office, locks the door and draws the curtains closed, and sits them both on the couch. He tries, as best as he can, to keep his voice steady and face dry as he explains the truth of Noctis’ destiny, that the boy must die according to a god’s prophecy and by the hands of his ancestors. Noctis nurses a mug of hot chocolate as he listens, often made by his father to coax out the nightmares that still plague him, quietly and without taking a sip. 

It’s only after a moment of silence that he takes his first drink and he licks his lips before finally looking up at his father. “Do you know when I’m supposed to… to die?”

“No. I wish I could tell —”

“So I could be fifty? Or sixty?” he says, daring a bit of hope into his voice. But then, “Or maybe twenty.”

Regis looks as well as a father delivering his beloved son’s death sentence. That is to say, he looks absolutely terrible. But he nods his assent, his throat gone dry. 

Noctis stares into his drink, seeing none of his reflection in the dark cream and foam. He tries again though, tries to be brave like his father when he appeared before Noctis and told him the truth. “Y’know, in school, we’re learning about statistics and probability and stuff. Who knows, maybe the odds will be on my side and this Accursed guy won’t show up until way later.”

He looks up, does his best attempt at a smile, but he doesn’t see his father’s face. Not when his eyes go blurry with tears, and Regis cradles the boy to his chest. The mug is forgotten between them, knocked over onto the floor, and the sweetness of the hot chocolate is turned to salt from their tears. 

(But Noctis won’t let that stop him. It lights a certain fire in his heart, breathes life into a determination to _live _and not just survive. If all it takes is one life to save an entire world, then the choice is easy: he’ll do it. He’ll be a good king, like his father, and make his ancestors proud. But that doesn’t mean he has to wallow in self pity and curse the little time he has left.)

  
  
  


When he is fourteen, Noctis seeks out the Kingsglaive. He waltzes through headquarters and barges into Drautos’ office, pointedly ignoring the small meeting in session, and crosses his arms to demand their finest Glaive. After waiting in the hallway — _after _Drautos grabbed him by the back of his collar, lifting his feet from the ground, and silently carried him out the door — he’s introduced to Nyx Ulric. Upon meeting him, Noctis has serious doubts he’s the best.

But he learns. 

“Don’t like training with your Shield, little prince?” Nyx asks through a grunt, pushing off Noctis’ sword with his kukris. “You’ll make him jealous.”

Without answering, Noctis goes in for an upward slash, using his smaller size to keep low to the ground and using the momentum to aim for Nyx’s neck. It doesn’t land, he didn’t expect it to, but it has the man skipping backwards and giving him a stretch of space for Noctis to gather back his bearings. He wipes the sweat off his cheek, and it only annoys him a _little _to see a single bead of sweat rolling down Nyx’s neck while knowing his own shirt is soaked through. 

“No, I like Gladio. He’s a jerk sometimes, but I still like him. Still train with him.” 

“Then why hang around me for the past few months?”

Noctis mutters something and phases out his practice sword for a set of daggers to shuck at Nyx. 

“Say that again?” The man parries both blades like he’s swatting a pair of flies.

“Because,” Noctis says, flashing behind him where a dagger was deflected to. “I don’t want to miss out on anything. Get to know you, the Kingsglaive, the Crownsguard.” He aims for a kick at the back of the knees, but Nyx warps away to safety before the attack even lands. 

Nyx hangs from a boulder, where he’s dug his kukri into, and cups his other hand around his mouth to yell across the distance. “You say it like we’ll disappear when you trade crowns with the King. Don’t worry, we’ll all still be around when it’s your turn to take the throne. Unless you decide to fire us!” 

The stone around his kukri crumbles, and he ends up eating dirt when the hold gives way. 

Noctis rolls his eyes and waits for the dust to settle, for Nyx to pop back up and pretend no one saw that. But if Crowe’s background snickering is anything to go by, he knows that’ll be a joke to save over kebabs and beer — root beer for Noctis. But while Nyx busies himself and shakes the dust off his uniform, whistling as if nothing’s amiss, Noctis watches on fondly and amused, muttering to the wind and no one else, “You’re not the ones disappearing, promise.”

(There was only so much he could learn through texts and lessons, cheap and watered down explanations of the nations and cultures beyond Insomnia’s walls. Nyx Ulric shared his traditions like he shared his smiles and jabs, easy and overflowing, teaching Noctis the meaning behind every braid, scar, and tattoo and going so far as to thread a carved bead into the prince’s hair. At the very least, Noctis could leave Nyx and his friends a proper memory of him, sitting around a shoddy restaurant and laughing over Noctis' intolerance for their tongue-burning cuisine. And he, a memory of loyal soldiers and even more loyal friends who look upon him as a brother rather than a prince.)

  
  
  


When he is fifteen, Noctis shows up at Ignis’ doorstep with an armful of groceries and his clothes soaked through with rain. Ignis nearly breaks the hinges off his door, and he quickly shuffles the drowned prince in and to the bathroom. 

It’s only when Noctis sits himself at the table, wearing old spares of Ignis’ clothes from his younger years, and he drinks from a cup of sweetened coffee that he spares an explanation. “Teach me how to cook.”

Ignis stares at Noctis’ easy grin and dripping hair, still wet from the quick shower, and it takes all his willpower to not throw his liege across the room. His Majesty approved of the apartment his son had picked to move into once high school started, and Ignis had made his own move to accommodate. He’s only lived in his new complex for a week, but he doesn’t remember telling Noctis the address. 

“I asked your uncle.”

He also didn’t realize he was talking out loud. 

“So,” Ignis sighs, emphasizing the disapproval in his huff, “you trekked through the rain, without Gladio or a guard, to arrive at my doorstep all to ask for a cooking lesson?”

“I brought groceries?” Noctis supplements, as if it changes anything. He nods his head over to the bags, the ones Ignis took from him before shoving him into the bathroom. 

Ignis leans his hip into the counter and slides his glasses off to pinch at his nose. He’s trying to think of the occasion, of the why and the what. Did he miss an anniversary, or some special day? Was this some wayward way of an apology? Noctis had been surly as of late, understandably. Teenage hormones — Ignis is still going through that himself — mixed with the looming shadow of his father’s mantle and the burden of a kingdom to inherit would do that. He recalls Noctis snapping at him the other day, when the prince had wanted to go into the city rather than spend a day studying over old history books. 

“What’s the point of reading dumb books when I can be out there, right now, seeing what and how my people are doing? How am I supposed to be a King if I don’t get _actual _experience in?”

Ignis had chalked it up to a cooped up teen itching for some freedom, so he had been surprised to hear there was a more practical reason. But before he could counter his argument, Noctis had swiped a stapler and followed it out the window, safely warping to the ground below. It had been night, with the first stars lighting the dark skies, when Nyx Ulric ended up dragging the prince back home, smelling of greasy kebabs and the _barest _hint of alcohol. “It was only a taste,” the man had defended. 

Ignis ends up going through the groceries and figuring what he could easily teach Noctis, but not without suspicion. His prince recognizes that look, the one Ignis puts on when he smells trouble, like he has some sixth sense dedicated to sniffing out what shenanigans Noctis has in mind. 

“I mean, can’t a guy hang out with his friend and bond over… ” Noctis checks the label on the can “… sweetened condensed milk?” 

“Perhaps. But coming from _you? _Pardon me when I say I have my doubts.” Ignis hands him a bowl and whisk anyway, as well as four eggs to crack and beat. “Separate the whites from the yolk please.” 

“It’s just,” he starts, cracking an egg in half. He tries to shift the yolk in between the halved shells, like all the cooking videos do, but whispers a curse when he pierces the yolk. “Well, am I seriously going to spend the rest of my life only knowing how to microwave noodles and mac ‘n’ cheese? Might as well learn while I have the time, and learn from the best while I’m at it.”

“While I’m pleased to know you’ve been taking your etiquette skills seriously, know that flattery will get you nowhere.” Ignis takes an egg and shows him how to properly separate them, letting the whites slip through while retaining the yolk. “Except for today. It will get you through the night, until I tell His Majesty you slipped out of the Citadel, first thing in the morning.” 

“ _Speeeeecs. _”

(For all their time together, Noctis never sat down to properly watch and appreciate Ignis’ skills with a skillet and knife, despite how he absolutely devoured anything and everything his friend cooked up — and only with a little grumbling when it came to vegetables. The realization hit him in the middle of the night, when he had seen the little tart sitting in his mini fridge, covered in saran wrap and with a sticky note of Ignis’ penmanship scribbled on it. He didn’t know how long this would last, the quiet comforts of oil popping and the aroma of spices, but as he had scrambled to pull his raincoat on and climb through his window, he was determined to savor every last second like he savored every bite.) 

  
  
  


When he is sixteen, Noctis locks eyes with the blonde kid who’s been hiding in his shadows for all these years. He remembers the first time they exchanged words, their poor excuse of an interaction, but he remembers it still. He was still a child himself, a little thing with baby fat still clinging to his face but has now mostly receded; but the blonde had enough weight on him to make Noctis nearly tip over when he had helped him up. He only recognizes him because he’s kept half an eye on him, quietly watching the boy grow out of his extra pounds and into more self-confidence. 

Noctis didn’t reach out sooner only because the boy himself didn’t seem ready. Which was fine, he supposed, as long as the guy didn’t wait until Noctis’ calling came to take him away. 

So it comes as a relief when he finally trots up and drags out the courage to say hello to Noctis, introducing himself as Prompto Argentum and bouncing like the sunshine caught in his hair. Noctis pretends to _barely _recognize him, only mentioning he’s seen Prompto a few times here and there, and makes a joking comment that he should have said hi sooner, that the rumor about the Caelums being vampires is only half true and he doesn’t bite without permission. That earns a laugh from both sides, though Prompto pauses for a brief moment to lean in and whisper, “Are you like, serious, though?”

To which Noctis rolls his eyes and drags him along before they arrive to class late. 

It’s late on a weekend, having gone past their promised hours at the arcade, when Noctis looks at his phone to see they were both supposed to head home long ago. He pulls Prompto outside, after cashing in their tickets and trading them in for cheaply-made toys and sugar-loaded candy, and apologizes for letting the time slip by. “Sorry, your parents aren’t going to be too pissed, are they?”

“Oh! Don’t worry, dude. They’re not home,” Prompto says, waving off his concerns with a hand and a smile. “They never are.” 

It’s then, that Noctis realizes, Prompto is lonelier than he lets on. 

There was a time in his life, the dark years of his childhood when he almost let his fate consume him. He was still a child, a little boy whose life would be cut short, a child who could do nothing but accept it and obey. Though he made a goal to not let it ruin the happiness he could still grasp, it was like struggling with a terminal disease and not knowing _when _his countdown would begin. Where to begin? What to do first? Would he even get to? 

It did not help he felt estranged from his own father for a time, though it was by no fault of Regis. He was king first and foremost, a king before Noctis was born, who was and is responsible for a kingdom and his people. Noctis understood, and tried to keep his struggles and life crisis to himself, to not needlessly burden his father with even more worries. It was the loneliest and hardest year of his life. 

So it takes one to know one, and Noctis knows what Prompto keeps secret. He doesn’t mention it, sees no point in digging up both old and fresh wounds; he makes an offer. “Wanna spend the night over?”

He sees the way Prompto’s brain short circuits, but the boy catches himself and bounces on his heels with an enthusiastic, “Hell yeah!”

They order enough delivery to make Ignis cry, but that’s a mess for tomorrow’s Noctis to worry about. For now they boot up the console and mash their buttons with greasy fingers, huddled up together on the couch as they beat the living shit out of each other’s characters. Noctis lets him win a few rounds, and he just laughs along when Prompto jumps up to do his victory dance.

(Outside of the Citadel, Noctis had no friends. Though they became his brothers in every sense except for blood, both Ignis and Gladio were sworn to him out of duty. Everyone else either wanted to rub elbows with royalty or were too intimidated to speak to a living and breathing prince. All except for Prompto, a welcome warmth compared to the cold stone of the Citadel. Prompto may think himself a simple plebeian, but Noctis knows him as so much more. He only hopes he has enough time to express that.)

  
  
  


When he is seventeen, Noctis hunts down Gladiolus and orders a weekend of camping, adjusting the duffel bag stuffed with instant noodles on his shoulder as if it’s the only thing he needs in the wilderness, ready and raring to go at a moment’s notice. “Your dad cleared out your schedule and gave the OK,” he says with a thumbs up.

“Okay. First of all, you didn’t bother to ask me first? And second, you hate camping.” Gladio, in his defense, has every reason to be skeptical. Normally Noctis would run at the mere mention of a tent, the only way to placate him being the promise of a fishing trip. Sometimes, it’s like pulling teeth to get him out of bed for morning training, when both their schedules only allowed them an hour after dawn before either of them had to be whisked away to other responsibilities. “Third, who are you and when did Noct get a body double so where is the brat hiding —”

“One, you love camping anyway. Two, we’re gonna go fishing too. And three, you’re an ass.” Noctis counts off his fingers as he answers to the accusations, then shrugs off the bag to shove it into Gladio’s arms. He watches as Gladio sighs and unzips it, and smiles when he sees those eyebrows lift up in surprise. 

“Are you trying to bribe me?” 

They both know Gladio could buy all the cup noodles his heart and stomach could ever want, the perks of being in service to royalty and all that, but it’s the thought that counts. 

“Huh. I guess you are Noct, doubt a body double would know my favorite flavor," he says, picking out a styrofoam cup and reading the label. Shrimp, surprisingly. 

“Oh shut up and help me pack.”

They take a trip to the northern mountains of Lucis, one of the few lands outside of Insomnia that Niflheim hasn’t reached. They pitch the tent at a haven, its glowing runes and blessed magic strong enough to ward off any daemons and beasts looking for a snack. Gladio makes a show of starting up the fire, as he is apt to do, with a piece of flint and some kindling, coaxing the little flame into a strong blaze and feeding it wood. 

Noctis had once suggested to take advantage of the elemental deposits, to toss a weak fire spell at the fire pit rather than going through the hassle of rubbing twigs or scraping at firestarters, but they had both found out that even the weakest and tiniest little flask made for… explosive results. So Noctis lets Gladio do his thing, proudly displaying his fire-making skills and saying his little tidbit on self-reliance and whatever. 

It’s night when all is said and done, and despite his love for fishing, Noctis knows not to wander over to the river unless he wants to get munched on by something. So he drags both camping chairs over to the edge of the haven, the legs scraping against the stone and glowing engravings, and faces them out toward the dark wilderness. He sits and waits for Gladio to finish up their dinner, two hot steaming cups of instant noodles thanks to the kettle set over the campfire. Gladio comes over, hands a cup and fork over to Noctis, and takes the seat beside him. 

"So, what's up?" Gladio asks, after slurping down the crimped noodles. "Needed a breather from palace life?" 

Noctis shakes his head in favor of speaking with a mouth full of noodles and soup. "Just," he says, after swallowing his food down, "wanted to see the stars. Properly."

Insomnia, despite everything she had to offer, made for a poor city to view the night skies. Not because of her skylights and neon billboards or her thrumming streets always alive with gleaming cars and blinding headlamps. But because of the very magic that protected her walls, the King's barrier that blanketed the kingdom and shielded her from monsters and machines. It was beautiful in a way, how it shimmered with light and magic, but it drowned out the night's own brilliance. 

"Stargazing huh." Gladio placed his empty cup by the foot of his chair and leaned back to lift his eyes toward the same sky. "Remember any constellations?" 

"Yeah, a few." Noctis points his fork up, at a cluster of stars north of the waning moon. "Phoenix. There's a red star at the tip of its beak."

"I know that one. What about Kirin, ya see it?" 

"Next to Cait Sith." 

They trade constellation trivia for the better part of the night, Gladio pointing out the ones often used for navigation and Noctis the patterns he learned from his studies. 

(It's not entirely untrue, that he wished to go stargazing in the quiet night away from the city. But he'd be damned if he didn't get at least _one _simple night where they could both just sit back and enjoy a weekend for the sole purpose of sitting back and enjoying a weekend, even if it meant suffering through bug bites and lack of proper plumbing. Or Gladio’s snoring. But he’d trade a hundred nights — thousands, millions — spent in a plush bed and silk sheets if it granted him one night more throwing their arms and legs over each other in a cramped tent and tiny bedrolls.)

  
  
  


When he is eighteen, Noctis opens his door to let Umbra trot in, carrying the mystical notebook in his little pack. The dog patiently sits on his haunches while Noctis unzips the bag but follows him to the desk where Noctis trades the notebook for a few biscuits he keeps in the bottom drawer. Umbra gingerly takes the treats, minding his teeth and barely scraping Noctis’ fingers, and finds a corner of the room to nibble on his reward and to take his consequent nap. 

Noctis sits and leafs through the pages filled with stickers and glued photos until he finds the most recent entry, several paragraphs of Luna’s handwriting filling the page. There’s a few pressed petals of a sylleblossom as a footnote, marking the end of her writing. 

_Dearest Noctis, _as it always starts off. _I'm afraid I can find little else of the Accursed, aside from what we've both gleaned. I pray to the gods and have asked Gentiana many times, but there is little they know. Or perhaps, little they're willing to share. _

Noctis expected as much. Both he and Luna have tried their research, Luna going to the gods and Noctis scouring the old texts and archives for this destined nemesis. All Noctis could learn was the name Adagium, and _that _he had to rip out of his father's lips. A man cursed of darkness, apparently, keen on seeking destruction and vengeance. But for why or for what, exactly? 

It would be nice to at least know what he looks like, for obvious practical reasons. His father couldn't even tell him that much, confessing that Adagium had used a sort of glamour to hide his true face during his rampage in the city. 

_Figured _, he writes on the next page. _Don't sweat it though. You holding up over there? They're not working you too hard, are they? _

Not long after Regis told him the truth of his calling, Noctis had turned to Luna. She had known. And just like Regis, she had wanted to give him a mercy, hiding the guillotine of martyrdom from his eyes. He had been upset, having trusted her for so long, but he had also recognized her goodwill, for all intents and purposes; it hadn't taken long for him to forgive her, with his soft heart and her even softer words. 

And when both their lives would be cut short. Noctis isn't the only one whose time will be taken after all. They bond over that, over their sacrifices to be made. He finds a comfort knowing there is another experiencing his same pain, though there had been the slight ping of guilt from finding relief in another’s shared suffering. But Luna had comforted him — bless her heart of gold — and confessed she held the same sentiments.

He slaps a sticker at the end of his entry, a tiny white moogle flaunting his favorite soda. He packs that same soda in Umbra’s pack, along with the notebook, and feeds the dog one more treat before sending him on his way. Noctis watches him saunter down the hall and disappear around the corner, using whatever Messenger trick to return to Luna’s side. 

(He may never get to see her again, not until the gods call for them, or save her from her fate — especially not when he can't even save himself — but they could at least find comfort in each other. Spend what time they had left to salvage what was lost in the fires wreaked by Glauca. They’ll play their roles in the end, King and Oracle, their legacy to be written as a romantic sacrifice in the books to come. Or maybe the world will never realize the price that will be paid, letting their lives fall to obscurity in favor of flashier feats. And if the world does indeed forget them, they’ll remember each other.)

  
  
  


When he is nineteen, Noctis reaches his tipping point. He’s been a brat, an imp, a gremlin; but not a liar. He can only keep a secret for so long, perhaps a trait earned from his father, considering he’s nearly breaking at the seams when he decides the charade will kill him before the prophecy does. 

So he picks a holiday weekend, when there’s no school and no threat of homework, and when even the government runs on the bare minimum to keep anarchy off the streets. Noctis and Prompto have no projects to worry about, and Gladio and Ignis are relieved of their duties for a short while. 

They’re all sitting in the living room, Gladio and Prompto digging their hands into a bowl of fresh popcorn, Ignis ignoring the action movie they have playing in favor of scrolling through the local news. Noctis excuses himself to use the bathroom.

He stands in front of the sink, splashes cold water on his face, looks into the mirror and dips his head down to splash even more water. He wonders how his father managed to scrape up the guts to tell him all those years back, because his own guts threaten to upheave the linguini Ignis cooked for dinner. But he knows he has to tell them, that it’s almost criminal he’s kept it from them for so long, even if the idea has his heart in a knot and his brain in a storm of anxiety. Noctis would pray to the gods for courage, if they weren’t the very ones taking him from his friends and family. 

“We have to talk,” he says, after spending what seemed like hours in the bathroom trying to gather his nerves. 

“But it’s the good part!” Prompto whines through a stuffing of popcorn. “Can you — oh.”

Prompto sees it first, but Gladio and Ignis swivel their heads around to see what has the blonde’s tongue tied. One look from Noctis and they all understand. Gladio goes for the remote, clicking the TV off, Prompto puts away their popcorn, and Ignis even makes sure to put his phone on silent. 

They make room for him, but Noctis takes a cushion and goes to the floor instead, squeezing the pillow in between his hands as he tries for words. He wants to shut down, stop halfway and just plaster on a smile and laugh out a “Haha, kidding!” but that would only break their hearts even more.

They all sit in silence, trying to digest the news and gravity of their prince’s demise. Noctis tries to chisel away at it and give them an out. “If… If any of you don’t want to hang around with a dead man walking, that’s okay, I get it.”

But before he can say anymore, Gladio and Prompto dogpile him, the soft carpeting the only thing staving off a concussion. Prompto’s weight he could handle, Gladio’s too if it was only him, but their combined loads make breathing like sucking through a straw. It makes crying hard too, he guesses. 

Prompto’s bumbling through his snotty nose and sobs, saying something like “Dude, don’t say that” or “Rude, dawn say fat.” Probably the prior. Gladio’s no waterfall, but his cheeks have slick trail marks running down them; his throat’s probably too tight to say anything, so he’s making up for it with how tight he wraps his arms around Noctis. 

Ignis sits by Noctis’ head, having put away his glasses sometime ago to wipe his eyes, and simply brushes his fingers through the boy’s hair. “Fool,” is all he says. An insult in the nature of the word, but Noctis thinks it’s one of the sweetest things he’s ever heard from that smart-ass mouth of his. In that, he means to say Noctis is a fool for ever daring the idea of his greatest friends leaving him to save themselves the heartbreak. 

“We’re never leaving you, man. Got it? Never ever _ever, _” Prompto manages to say through the congestion. 

(Noctis holds them to it, like the way they hold each other for the rest of their years.) 

  
  
  


When he is twenty, Noctis prepares for the road trip of a lifetime — Gladio, Prompto, and Ignis promised to his side.


End file.
